


Beneath the skin

by ellamason



Category: Les Misérables - All Media Types
Genre: Internalized Victim Blaming, M/M, Masochism, No Touching, Reluctant Sadist, Virginity or Celibacy Kink
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-04-21
Updated: 2017-04-21
Packaged: 2018-10-19 09:11:17
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,266
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10636788
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ellamason/pseuds/ellamason
Summary: Javert visits Valjean while he's imprisoned in Montreuil.





	

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Esteliel](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Esteliel/gifts).



The cell was not the worst Valjean had ever been in. It was most often used to house drunks after festivals turned rowdy, so there was a lingering acrid smell of piss and vomit. A row of bars separated him from the only door and the guards who had stripped him to his undershirt and trousers had done a fine job of taking away his posessions and good name. But the three stone walls were solid enough to afford him some privacy, and the stillness was a blessing.

News of his arrest must have already travelled through the town, as a crowd had gathered around the building by the time he arrived, flanked by Javert and two officers. The children he had fed and educated pushed their way in front to get a better look at him. He had kept his eyes fixed forward and done his best to ignore the thrum of whispers that threatened to overwhelm him. This was the first step of a long journey he knew all too well, he reminded himself. There was far worse to come.

A small window set high in the wall let in enough of the sunset to offer a faint hope. Valjean’s eyes followed the trail of dust and light, his face turning instinctively towards what little light he could reach. He closed his eyes for a quiet moment, trying to savour the last of its warmth.

“Can you hear them outside?”

Javert’s tone was sharp, startling Valjean into turning. How long had he been in the room? He stood behind the bars, as impassable as always. His cudgel was tucked under one arm, his eyes narrowed.

“Your secret is well and truly out. How does it feel to be exposed for the fraud you are?”

There was no furniture in the cell, nothing to hide behind or sit down on. Valjean pressed his back against the wall and sunk to the floor. Javert’s eyes followed his descent.

“Nothing to say for yourself? You’ve had enough to say to me for these past months. All those frivolous instructions and warnings. All that kind, thoughtful advice.” He sneered. “Yes, I’ve held my tongue quite enough. I've listened to the ravings of a convict. You can do me the courtesy of listening to me.”

Valjean drew up his knees, wrapping his arms around them and staring at the far wall behind Javert. There was a misshapen brick of an uneven hue. He fixed his eyes on it, allowing Javert to blur into a dark shape. This was nothing, he reminded himself. There would be a public exposure and then the long journey to Toulon. What was one man’s eyes on him?

But Javert’s eyes were particularly cruel. This was not the idle scrutiny of a curious peasant, or even the disappointed gaze of one of his factory workers. Javert seemed to be consumed with a furious triumph, and Valjean could not guess how it might be cooled.

There was no time for self pity, he reminded himself. A child was in desperate need of help, and he could do nothing from this cell. Let Javert tire himself out with words. Valjean had far more to worry about.

“They should have taken that shirt away from you,” Javert said, his voice rough. “Haven’t we learned that you can’t be trusted? That you will hide behind wool and silk, cover up what you truly are? If I had seen you once without that shirt of yours, you would have been in here a lot sooner.”

Valjean inclined his head. “I knew that,” he replied. “That was why you never saw me without it.”

“No, Valjean. But I still knew. You bought yourself some time, that was all. The ending is always the same with your kind.”

Javert took a slow breath and stepped forward. He reached out and grasped one of the bars of the cell.

“Do you know, I think I have an idea of what you’re feeling,” Javert said. His tone had softened into something thoughtful. Valjean shifted against the wall, looking up at him. For the first time, he looked up at Javert’s face -- and as he did so, Javert’s smile widened. “You know what it is not to belong. To be unsuited for society and still to dare claim a position in this world.”

Valjean shifted on the cell floor, half regretting his decision to sit. The cold stone was solid against his back. And as Javert regarded him from behind the bars, he was unable to repress a shiver.

“The difference between us?” Javert pressed closer until the folds of his coat pushed through the gaps between the bars of the cell. “I master my impulses. I have never betrayed my position or allowed my nature to corrupt society the way you have.”

“I did no harm,” Valjean said, but his voice was low. Javert laughed, low and angry.

“No harm. The man turns society on its head and then tries to claim he did no harm. You can cease your protestations, though. I am not your judge or executioner. And that is all the better for you.”

“Javert--”

“Inspector Javert. You never learn, do you?”

“Inspector, please--”

“You should take that shirt off. Now. Let me see you.”

Valjean shook his head. He did not trust his voice. But Javert’s words twined around him, horribly compelling. The charade was over -- at least until he could find a way to free himself. Jean le Cric, he thought, would not find himself helpless against the wall. Le Cric could intimidate Javert with a glance, and his silence would be no weakness. To strip off his shirt might offer some defence against this strange assault.

But Javert had already nodded, thoughtful and derisive.

“If I were in there with you, I’d rip it open myself. I’ve thought of it enough. Watching you parade around town in a better man’s clothing has been--” Javert exhaled and Valjean's own breath caught in his throat. “It was-- satisfying to bring you here. To show the world what you truly are. I’ve waited long enough for it.

“Bringing you to justice, that was a pleasure. But it was permitted. I want to explain this to you, Valjean, so that you will understand what it means to subjugate your own nature for the good of society. It is far, far harder than you think.”

Javert’s hand moved furtively. He pushed the panels of his coat aside and Valjean’s eyes were drawn down to his trousers, which were pulled tight against a thick bulge. Then he deliberately wrapped both hands around the steel bars of the cell. 

Valjean glanced at Javert's straining trousers. “That is your nature then, I suppose?” He could barely trust his voice.

“That is the least of your worries,” Javert snapped. He kept both hands on the bars of the cell, but Valjean saw one palm slide unconsciously upwards. “Have you considered that I could be in there with you if I chose? I have the keys, I have the authority. There is no one to stop me but myself.”

Valjean was stronger than Javert, he reminded himself. But while he could handle himself against an attack from another prisoner, it was not wise to lay a hand on a jailer. Javert laughed softly, and a shiver ran up Valjean's spine.

“In the bagne, I had the right to discipline prisoners. The lash and the cudgel were both at my disposal.” A shuddering breath. And finally Javert reached down to palm at his clothed erection. “All those men, all those bodies with no means of protecting themselves. All at my command.

“I thought about it, of course. I wondered what it would mean to bend those bodies to my will, to mark them with blows from my own arm. I spent hours listening to the sounds they made when the lash fell. In those days I still believed that I may not have inherited my father’s viciousness. But I soon learned that my blood was as corrupt as any prisoner’s.”

Javert’s eyes had travelled up to the window, where the single shaft of light pierced the cell’s darkness. He snapped his attention back to Valjean.

“You saw it yourself, when I condemned you. I was right, but the act was impetuous. There was rebellion in me then, even as there is now. If I were to loosen my grip on these bars, you’d see it soon enough.”

The man was mad, surely. Valjean pressed his back further up against the wall, as though its chill might guard him against the fire of Javert’s anger.

“That shirt would be gone. And you would be howling in agony before it hit the ground.” Javert murmured. “I believe you know the sound I mean. Have you missed making that sound, Valjean? I hear it so rarely in this town.”

Was the air thinning? Valjean’s breaths were coming in short, nervous gulps. Javert’s chest rose and fell, pressed up against the bars of the cell. 

“I could have cornered you on the street at any time and ripped away that silk shirt once and for all. Let the people see just what they’ve been blindly following. They would have thanked me for it afterwards. They would have demanded your blood and I would have taken pleasure in giving them what they asked for. Your back has gone unmarked for so long. Not anymore.”

The hands that gripped the steel cell bars tightened until Javert’s knuckles were pale. 

“But no. No. There are better men than me to take care of that. I have held myself apart and that is for the best.” Valjean shook his head, wordless. “You don’t believe me? If you came close enough to these bars, you could feel the proof of it for yourself.” 

Valjean glanced down. Javert’s erection was obscene, the bulge in his trousers jutting between the bars. His tongue darted out unconsciously to moisten his lips. Then, realising what he had done, he turned his face away in horror. Javert’s answering laugh was frightening.

“You see. The depraved nature always wins out in the end. But it is also in your nature to submit to authority -- that is our only hope, our kind.” Another harsh laugh, and Valjean could not bear to look at Javert. “I suppose my presence is confusing to you. Just as yours was confusing to me when you were the mayor.”

Valjean drew a nervous breath. He forced himself to think of Fantine, of the high window that promised a life beyond prison bars and taunting guards. He pushed away the images that were already clouding his brain.

“Enough,” Javert snapped. His untouched erection looked as though it ached. “I have learned to master my urges. This moment will fade with time. There are more worthwhile things than-- than this.”

He pushed himself back from the bars with what looked like an effort. His hands worked quickly, pulling his coat back into place and hiding away his unsightly secrets. He spared Valjean a final glance and then, without another word, left the room. The lock clicked into place behind him.

Crouched in the corner, knees bent almost up to his chin, Valjean shuddered. Javert’s words were still twisted around him, binding him more surely than chains or bars. The image of that prick, swollen and constrained by cruel fabric, would not leave him. Worse still, neither did the thoughts that had crept through his mind as Javert spoke. The blood was as red and fresh in his mind as it had been all those years ago, the shame as stinging.

In his mind, he pulled Javert back to the cell, imagined him pressed up still against the bars. What if he had obeyed those too-dangerous requests? What would it mean to peel away his shirt and crawl closer to his jailer? It would only prove the things Javert already suspected. He imagined the heady scent of Javert’s arousal, the smell as sharp and familiar as the nights at Toulon. Javert’s hands would snake through the bars, his fingers twisting in Valjean’s hair. It would hurt. He would choke. He had never felt the weight of a prick on his lips, but that would not matter to Javert. 

In Javert’s mind, the things a man was and the things he did were not entirely separate. Javert, he thought, would not be surprised to know that Valjean’s own prick was throbbing behind his drawn-up legs, that his obscene suggestions had woken something deep and terrible that Valjean had never known.

He did not deserve to be imprisoned. He was not what Javert imagined him to be. But perhaps -- he squeezed his eyes closed -- perhaps he did deserve some form of punishment. He who had overlooked Fantine’s fall, who had spent a night in search of excuses to ignore Champmathieu’s plight, who had stolen silver from a priest and a coin from a child. And now this.

Javert’s prick in his throat. Javert’s eyes on his bare flesh -- his skin and his secrets exposed for Javert’s vicious attentions. Was that a suitable punishment? Or was it enough that those images were now mingled with inexplicable desire. A sin and a punishment wrapped into a single thought. 

He pressed his palms to the cold stone floor, allowing the tormenting ache to spread through him. Most faults could not be repaired. But this one, at least, could be contained. He raised his eyes to the small window with its dying light and began to mouth a prayer.


End file.
